Disclaimer: Feh, don't own anything except Ice's old Irish mother.

Note: For those of you who know where this fic is headed (which should be most of you, since I assume you're reading WSS fanfiction for a reason), a confirmation: we've definitely wrapped up the happier part of this fic. Heh.

—viennacantabile

fell the angels

ten : to hold the sky

.

It was the beginning of a day in June; the deep blue sky unsullied by a cloud, and teeming with brilliant light. The streets were, as yet, nearly free from passengers, the houses and shops were closed, and the healthy air of morning fell like breath from angels, on the sleeping town.

—Charles Dickens, The Old Curiosity Shop

.

Ice is not, has never been a morning person, but as he wakes to pale sunlight and the sound of his mother's voice, he smiles.

He can't recall the last time his mother sang; he only remembers that she used to, all the time, and Ice, stretching out on his thin, narrow bed, takes it as a good sign that she's doing it today. Her voice is slow, wistful, and he's not sure of the words—it's not one of the Irish tunes imprinted in his memory, but something about bluebirds and rainbows and all that happy stuff—but what is important is that Ice can hear the smile in his mother's voice. It's good that she's happy, he thinks as he swings his feet to the floor, because for sure it's going to be a great day for all of them, too.

He can't wait to get this settled. It's been awhile since Ice has had a really good, all-out fight, and he's looking forward to showing those PR punks how dumb they are for even thinking they can match fists with his gang. The Jets have been running these streets for the past four years, and who are the Sharks? Just upstart foreigners who have no respect for everyone who was already here. Well, he thinks, pulling a green sweatshirt and chinos on with a small smile, we were here before you, and when you're gone, we'll still be here. That's a promise.

Mrs. Kelly is in the small kitchen, making toast and still humming as he walks in. "Mornin', John."

"Mornin', Ma," Ice greets in return, easing himself down on one of the rickety wooden chairs he never fails to feel he is going to break someday. "Sleep well?"

His mother turns back to give him a smile. "Ah, fair enough."

"That's good," Ice says, the corners of his mouth turning up in return. Lately she's seemed happier, and he wonders if she is finally beginning to forget. "Listen, Ma," he continues, "I ain't gonna be back for awhile tonight, so don't wait up, okay?"

"Big day planned?" she asks, a touch of curiosity in her pale blue eyes as she puts a plate down on the table in front of him.

Ice, picking up his toast, nods. "Yeah, you could say that."

"Ye goin' out with Velma, then?" his mother goes on, face brightening. Mrs. Kelly loves Ice's girlfriend, and is forever urging her son to bring her over and make sure he hangs on to her and yeah, Ice plans on doing just that, but to hear her say it so often is a little nerve-racking. It's a little too close to what Riff tells him about Graziella hinting about settling down soon. It makes him feel—well, trapped. Boxed in, with no way out. Which is not something he normally associates with Velma.

Ice shifts in his seat. "Well…no." Mrs. Kelly glances at him, and Ice is reminded once again that he really needs to work on his lying skills. "I mean, I'm gonna see her, but we're not goin' out…"

"Oh," says his mother, giving him a mildly amused glance. "I see. What're ye doin', then?"

"Uh—well, I'm meetin' her at Doc's later," Ice says, scrambling for an answer. "An' then—I don' know, just hangin' out, I guess," he ends lamely, hoping that will be the end of it. But he has no such luck.

"Why don't ye bring her over for dinner?" Mrs. Kelly suggests with a smile. "Around six or seven, say."

A very uncomfortable Ice clears his throat. "I'm gonna be at Big Deal's for dinner, actually," he says, going for and failing at nonchalance. He's really probably just going to pick up a sandwich or something with Riff a few hours before the rumble—it's not exactly intimidating to heave up your dinner at the first punch to the stomach—but she doesn't need to know that. "An' I think Vee's gonna be home."

Mrs. Kelly studies the table. "Oh," she says again, but this time it's soft and quiet. Just as Ice wonders if it's okay to bolt yet, she directs serious eyes toward him. "What is it, John?"

Ice nearly chokes on his toast. "What?"

"There's somethin' the matter," his mother persists. "I can see it."

Ice takes a gulp of milk, for once wishing that his mother didn't care so much about her son, and shrugs. "Nothin', Ma. Don't worry."

She stares at him for a moment, then glances away. "It's somethin' with the Jets, isn't it," she sighs. "I know 'tis."

Ice shrugs again, quite helplessly. "Don't worry about it," he repeats, swallowing the last of his breakfast. "I can take care-a myself."

"I know ye can," she murmurs as he gets to his feet. "But all the same, ye'll be careful, won't ye?"

Ice, depositing his plate in the sink, barely hears her. "Yeah, sure, Ma. Just don't wait up, okay?" That done, he moves to exit the kitchen when her next question stops him short:

"Did ye tell her?"

Ice takes a deep breath. He remembers that long silence from the night before, the anxiety in that quiet kiss goodbye just before dawn. She knows, just as every other Jet's girl does, or soon will. But he doesn't see why it matters. This is just gang business—just a rumble. And the thing about Velma is that she's always seemed sort of separate from all of that. Distanced, not connected to those other pieces of his life that don't belong in any kind of world with her in it. She knows, yes, but she is not a part of it. And, he hopes, thinking of what it means to be a gang member's girl, she never will be.

"Look, Ma," he begins, but she is quick to interrupt him with a light hand on his arm.

"The truth, now," and as Ice turns around to see her uneasy face and worried eyes he feels a slight pang of guilt. He wishes there were some way to let his mother know that she doesn't have to worry about him. That everything will be fine. But even if there were without mentioning the rumble, she wouldn't believe it. So the next best thing he can do is what she asks: tell her the truth.

"If," he says, letting the air out of his lungs in one big gust, "there was somethin' goin' on today with the Jets—somethin' important—yeah, she'd know about it, Ma." He shakes his head. "Even if I ever wanted to lie to her, she'd figure it out anyway, so not much point in that."

Mrs. Kelly studies his face for a moment, then gives him a small smile. "S'pose that's why I like her so much, then."

Ice chuckles before he can stop himself. "Yeah," he says, patting his mother on the shoulder, "me, too." He hesitates before giving her a brief, tentative embrace. It'll be awhile before he sees her again, anyway, and just in case—

But Ice banishes the thought as quickly as it comes. Nothing is going to happen tonight, he thinks as he turns to leave, except the Jets proving, once and for all, why they are the best gang in the city.

As he heads back to his room, Mrs. Kelly gives a rueful smile. "Couldn't ye go out the front like all the normal borin' people, John?"

Ice has to laugh. "This's the West Side, Ma," he reminds her. "There ain't any normal people here, anyway."

.

Once he is out of that cramped, bare apartment and clambering down the iron bars of the fire escape, Ice breathes a sigh of relief. Happier or not, it hasn't gotten easier for his mother to accept that he will be out at all hours of the night with the Jets, and at the same time, it's gotten even harder for him to skip out on her without feeling like he's trampling on something very small and defenseless. She is still lonely, he knows. As well as sad. And not for the first time, Ice shakes his head. He knows who is responsible for that.

But now is not the time to be worrying about his mother. Though the morning is still cool, summer heat is already rising from the concrete pavement and Ice, shading his eyes from the light, wonders exactly what time it is and how many of the Jets will be awake. None of them get up any earlier than they have to, for good reason—after all, they spend half their nights patrolling their territory—and Ice wouldn't be up, either, except for the fact that sleep is an impossibility now. No, thinks Ice, sleep will be a long time coming today. He half-smiles. And isn't he looking forward to that.

There is no other place to go but Doc's; even if no one else is there, he can wait for the others. The candy store is their de facto headquarters, and if anything is going to happen before the rumble—good, bad, or indifferent—that is where it will be. Riff and Tony will show up for sure, for one reason or another, along with the rest of the Jets. And somehow, Velma always seems to know when he is there.

His mind made up, Ice cuts across town through the alleys and streets he knows so well, long legs covering the distance with smooth, sure speed. Every turn and doorway holds a memory for him—ambushing Hawks, dodging cops, grabbing a bite to eat on the go, all with the Jets—and propels him forward. He is confident, steady, at ease. The sun is shining and the sky is bright and it's going to be a good day.

.

As he pushes the door open, Ice squints in the sudden darkness of the candy store. Doc is behind the counter, as usual, and if he's not mistaken, Tony is there, too, restocking the boxes in the window.

"Hiya, Ice," calls Tony, giving a sunny, cheerful wave.

Ice darts a curious glance at him. "Hey, Tony. Doc," he adds, nodding at the slight old man. "How ya doin'?"

Tony gives him a grin so bright it's blinding. "Just great, buddy-boy. Took a trip to the stars last night, an' man, oh man, am I still flyin' high."

Ice blinks. Tony's always talked in riddles and rainbows but this is a little much, even for him. "What've you been takin'?"

Tony, reaching into a box, just laughs and tosses him a candy bar over his shoulder. "You wouldn't understand, Ice." His gaze flicks back over to his friend. "Or maybe ya would; I don't know."

"This about the rumble?" Ice asks with a half-smile as he unwraps the chocolate bar and takes a bite. Maybe Tony isn't so far gone after all, he thinks, if he still remembers what that high is like. "'Cause I didn't think you remembered what that felt like, Daddy-O."

The grin on Tony's face falters, to be replaced by an even happier smile. "Nah, I'm done with rumbles, Ice-man. What I'm talkin' about—it's like walkin' on air, straight on up to heaven. Like nothin' I've ever felt before. That's what I'm talkin' about."

Ice watches him, puzzled. Tony's blue eyes are so far away he looks like he's in a waking dream, almost like those religious types he sees on the corner every Sunday. "What are ya talkin' about?"

"Him? Oh, he's in love," observes Doc dryly as Ice glances at him, startled. "You think this is bad, you shoulda seen him before ya came in. 'Doc,' he says when he walks in, 'y'know, I feel like the world is this great big shinin' star come down from the sky, just for me. It's a miracle.'" The old man turns his gaze to Tony and shakes his head. "The world's gone mad, all right, when a boy like you talks like that."

Laughing, Tony straightens up and leans on the counter. "Doc, can ya blame me? Ice, you saw her," he adds, face taking on a look of wonder. "The most beautiful girl I ever saw in all my life. Maria."

And now Ice remembers, and frowns. The PR girl. Bernardo's sister. "Ya mean ya weren't just dancin' with her?"

Tony laughs. "Dancin'? Feels like I been dancin' all night. Like I said, buddy-boy, I took a trip up to the stars yesterday, an' I ain't never felt so good in my life. Never."

Ice eyes his friend. Tony has always had that tendency to talk big, he thinks again, but never quite like this. Ice doesn't know how to respond. "Sounds nice."

"You gotta know what I mean, right, Ice?" sighs Tony, eyes bright. "How ya never saw a girl ya liked for real—for keeps—before, but when ya did, it was like the whole world lit up, right in front-a ya, when ya never even knew it was there. An' everythin' made sense and it was like ya never knew anythin' before an' there wasn't nothin' you couldn't do. Nothin'." He settles back and puts his chin in his hands with a sigh. "I been waitin' my whole life for that kinda feeling, an' here it was all along, just around the corner. Waitin' for me." He glances at Ice. "You know what I mean, don't ya?"

"Well, yeah," Ice says, because like it or not, it does sound familiar. He remembers a night when the moon was so bright he could see the girl in front of him and look straight into the future and feel that for once in his life, everything was going to be okay. "'Course I do."

Except, he thinks, there's one key difference. Velma isn't a Shark's sister, isn't a Shark's girl. And Ice is not a Jet on the other side of the fence looking through at something that doesn't belong to him and never will.

But Tony, clearly not thinking about any of this, grins. "Then you know I got better things to think about tonight than a rumble," he says, picking up a candy bar of his own and tearing the wrapper open. After chewing for a moment, he sets it back down again and laughs, shaking his head. "Jesus, Ice, I can't get over it. Maria."

Ice, still bemused, glances at Doc with a smile that is only half-kidding. "Ya sure he ain't been takin' somethin'?"

Doc just shrugs. "The oldest drug there is, Ice. If I could bottle it, I'd make a fortune." He tosses his rag at Tony. "Do me a favor an' take over for a sec. I wanna talk to your buddy here."

Tony, whistling a few notes, catches the rag and begins working the counter. Ice shakes his head and takes a seat on his usual chair behind the pinball machine. Right now, he's not up on the moon like Tony, but he's still feeling good enough so that his oldest friend acting funny doesn't bother him too much. It's not until Doc moves to stand in front of him that the old man's words register.

Ice eyes him, wary. For an adult, he supposes, Doc isn't so bad. He does get a little preachy sometimes, yeah, but Ice doesn't know too many grown-ups who wouldn't call the cops every time the Jets walked through the door. And Doc, no matter how many times he tells them they should go the straight and narrow and all that, never does. Still, though, that doesn't mean he's looking forward to what the old man is almost guaranteed to say. "Whaddaya wanna talk to me for, Doc?"

"You're almost as happy as him," says Doc, waving toward his helper. "I mean, you're actually talkin', so I figure somethin's gotta be doin' it, right? What is it? Your girl too?"

Ice can't help a half-smile. "What, I ain't always happy?"

Doc shakes his head. "Not like this."

Ice shrugs. "What's it matter?"

"Well," says Doc, faded eyes earnest, "look, whatever's makin' ya happy—don't ya wanna hold on to it? This kid, here—" he gestures back at Tony— "he got out, an' look at him. He ain't doin' so bad for himself, is he?"

Ice laughs as Tony darts a smirk at him. "Maybe the Jets is what makes me happy, Doc. Ever stop to figure that?"

"Yeah," says Doc, face serious, "an' what I figure's that all these years with the Jets, how come I ain't never seen you grinnin' like ya are now?"

Ice's smile slips, just a little. "It's a good day, 's all," he says. "We're rumblin'. Cleanin' out the Sharks, an' I get to do it. 'Course I'm happy."

But Doc won't let up. "You're what—eighteen? Nineteen?" he asks. "You gonna keep playin' with the Jets all your life? I thought you was smarter than that, Ice."

Ice waves him off. "Doc—"

"An' your girl," Doc goes on, "I bet she don't like this—"

Ice frowns at the old man. Why does everyone keep bringing Velma up? "She knows I'm a Jet, an' she's fine with it," he says, on edge. "She don't have nothin' to do with it."

Doc shakes his head. "That's where you're wrong," he says, and sighs.

Ice leans back in his chair, unsettled. "Look, Doc," he says, "you heard last night, or Tony told ya, I bet. Tonight I'll take Bernardo an' everything will be over an' done with. Just fine. What's your worry?"

Doc just shrugs. "Anytime it sounds that simple, it usually ain't."

Ice looks away. Maybe it isn't for Doc, he thinks, but for the Jets, that's a different story. After tonight, the Jets will be number one again and no one will even remember the Sharks. Ice knows it as well as he knows his own name, and every other Jet does, too.

"Look, Ice, I just want ya to know you got options, y'know?" the old man goes on, leaning forward. "You got a future; you can—"

Ice grins, suddenly amused again. "What, ya gonna gimme a job like that poor schmuck?" He jerks his head at Tony, who just rolls his eyes at Ice and continues wiping down the counter.

Doc shakes his head. "Nah, what with your friend here, I got all the help I can afford." He pauses. "But if a job's what you want, I could maybe lend a hand."

Ice, drumming his fingers on the scarred wooden table, laughs. "Yeah? How?" He's not actually serious—sure, maybe someday he'll have to get a job just like all the other grown-ups, but hell, that day is a long, long time away. Ice is nineteen, old enough to drink and get married and Jesus, even have kids if he's crazy enough (he's not) but to every adult who looks at him, he's just a kid himself. What would he do with a job?

"I don't know," says Doc, faded eyes earnest. "But I got a coupla friends I could call. A deliveryman, a clerk, a constru—"

Ice laughs out loud. "A clerk? Me? Doc, ya got more faith in me than my own ma, an' that's sayin' somethin'. You oughta see how my homework looked in school."

"When the hell did ya ever do homework?" asks Tony, poking his head up. His blue eyes are dancing with laughter. "Miracle ya even graduated at all with the rest of us numbskulls, an' that was with a year extra."

Ice matches Tony's grin with a smile of his own. Graduated. It's true, he thinks, still a bit amazed, he did. It's more than anyone except his mother—and probably Velma—ever expected of the gang member and his straight C's. Especially since he'd already had to repeat junior year, what with all the school he'd skipped during the months he'd lived with Tony. But high school is one thing, a job is another, and some stupid diploma doesn't exactly mean he's the kind of guy to sit in an office all day. Doc should know that.

"Well, somethin' else, then," the old man insists. "You name what you wanna be, an' I bet I can call someone up."

Ice just chuckles and props his chin on his hand. "Sure. How about a Jet, then?"

Doc sighs and shares a look with Tony. "Yeah," he says in a low voice, "I got one-a those, too."

"How's that workin' out for ya?" asks an amused Ice, darting a glance at Tony. He is surprised to note that his friend looks serious for once.

"Maybe ya oughta listen to him," says Tony, gaze earnest. "Think about it, y'know?" He hesitates. "The Jets—they're great, but…they ain't everythin', Ice."

Ice blinks, flummoxed, and polishes off his candy bar instead of replying. Tony is the one who, with Riff, started the Jets. And now he's gone beyond dropping them and is actually telling Ice to think about quitting? Getting a job like him and not being a Jet anymore? He's so staggered that he can't speak. How can Tony, of all people, say that?

"C'mon, Ice," Doc urges. "You got so much life aheada ya. Don't waste it."

Before Ice can answer, the doorbell rings and Riff bounds in. "Hey, Doc, ya seen—" He stops when he notices the three of them there, and his grin flicks on like a light. "Tony! Whatta sight for sore eyes!" His gaze shifts to his lieutenant. "An' Ice-man! You're up bright 'n early."

The sight of a grinning, confident Riff is enough to reassure Ice that everything is fine, that Tony's just got his head in the clouds on account of some girl he'll probably forget in a week. He'll be back with them soon, and everything will be okay, because being a Jet, remembers Ice, is for life. "Don't worry about me, Doc. I can handle myself."

The old man sighs heavily. "That's what I'm worried about," he mutters, before retreating into the back room. Ice, eyes on Riff, barely hears him.

"Hey, Daddy-O."

"Hiya, Ice," Riff returns with a cheery wave, plopping down on a chair across from him. "You ready to rock it tonight?"

Ice smiles, feeling his adrenaline spike at his captain's words. "You bet."

"Man," says Riff with an infectious grin, "we're finally doin' it, huh? Runnin' the Sharks out. About time, huh, Tony?" he adds, looking at his best friend. When Tony doesn't answer, Riff shrugs and turns back to Ice. "Look, so last night when I left Graz's place, I got to thinkin'—after we clean up the PRs, I figure we might need to start addin' onto our turf. Gettin' more space. The Jets ain't gettin' any smaller, y'know, 'specially not if Mouthpiece's ma's right about him." He laughs. "I got plans for the Jets, buddy-boy."

Ice nods. The future seems so far away to him that it's hard to imagine anything right now but leaning back in his chair in this hot dusty store, waiting for the sun to set. "Well," he says, "you got all the Jets behind ya, that's for sure."

Riff grins. "Knew I could count on ya, buddy-boy." He glances at Tony, who messing with something behind the counter. "What about you? Ya in? Or are ya thinkin'-a shackin' up with the señorita an' settin' up house?" He chuckles. "I gotta say, I can't picture ya runnin' around with a buncha half-Mexican kiddies."

Tony doesn't smile. "Riff, that isn't funny."

"Sure it is," says Riff, giving his best friend a playful punch on the shoulder. "You'd look godawful in a sombrero."

Ice, watching his former captain, can see the muscles in Tony's jaw ripple and clench. Riff is just kidding, but it is clear that this girl—Maria—is anything but a joke to Tony. And Ice wonders for the first time if this is serious. If Tony means what he says when he talks about being in love for keeps. And if he is—what does that mean for the Jets?

After a moment, Tony sighs and shakes his head. "I'm gonna go check up on stock in the back," he says, and disappears into the darkness of the cellar.

Riff, still grinning, raises an eyebrow. "What's with him?"

Ice shrugs. "Doc says he's in love. An' I gotta say, I think he might be right."

"Aww, it'll pass," says Riff easily. "'S like a tummyache. Ya whine an' moan 'cause it hurts like a mother, but then ya take the magic pill an' it goes away just like that an' ya can't believe you was so sick in the first place."

Ice glances at the Jet captain. "You ever been in love, Daddy-O?"

Riff shudders. "Why, is it catchin'? You better watch it, Ice-man, you're startin' to sound like one-a the chicks talkin' about feelings."

Ice, embarrassed, shrugs. "Just thought maybe I'd ask."

Riff plops his chin on his hand and appears to consider this. "Well, what's it feel like?"

Ice is surprised to find himself repeating Tony's words. "Like…nothin' you ever knew," he says reluctantly, remembering that sense of wonder. "Like ya didn't know what happy was before." He knows how sappy and stupid this sounds—after all, he didn't buy it when Tony was spouting it, either—and prepares himself to meet some well-deserved heckling, but to his surprise, the Jet captain is silent. Ice glances over to see him settled back in his seat, looking deep in thought. And when Riff finally meets his lieutenant's eyes, it's with a contemplative expression foreign to his face.

"Nah," he says, and his voice sounds strange. "I don't guess I've ever been in love, then."

"Oh," says Ice. He wonders if Graziella knows this.

The silence is broken by Riff clearing his throat. "I'd ask you the same, buddy-boy," he says, a rueful smile on his face, "but seein's how I already know, well…"

Ice half-smiles. "You ain't off the hook for that yet, y'know."

Riff mirrors his expression. "One-a my better ideas, puttin' you two kids together."

Ice snorts, remembering the real reason Riff brought him along on that double-date almost a year ago. "'Cause ya just knew it'd work, did ya?"

Riff just grins. "Well, it did, didn't it?"

And Ice has to laugh. "Yeah. It did."

Riff smiles again, and glances out the window at the street, brown eyes unseeing. He is quiet for a long time before he appears to come to a decision.

"Look," he says, turning back to Ice, "do you think there's somethin' out there's better'n the Jets?"

"'Course not," Ice answers automatically, puzzled. "What could be better'n the Jets?"

"That's what I said, yesterday," says Riff, frowning. "But he just kept goin' on about it. An' that was before he met that Puerto Rican chick."

"Oh," says Ice with a sigh. "I don' know. Who knows what Tony's thinkin' nowadays?"

Riff shrugs. "Not me," he says, and Ice thinks that he sounds a little sad. To Riff, he supposes, Tony had it all—leadership of the Jets, a mother, a best friend, just about any girl he wanted—and he just walked away. He wanted something more. Something different. And Riff, who has shared just about everything else in Tony's life, can't understand this at all. For that matter, neither can Ice.

"Hey, Riff," he says. He wonders what it was that led Tony to the point where his best friend doesn't recognize him. If there is something Tony—and even Doc—knows that none of them do. "D'ya ever think about the future?"

Riff laughs, seemingly at ease again. "Who, me? Ice, y'know I don't think further'n what I'm havin' for lunch." He smirks. "Ham 'n cheese, if ya really wanna know."

Ice leans back in his chair, reassured in spite of himself. Riff, at least, he thinks, will never change, will always be that guy you can count on to cheer you up and talk you into giving him the shirt off your back in a snowstorm and thinking you're burning up the whole time. He smiles. "Sounds good."

"Yeah," agrees Riff, eyes crinkling in a grin. "Now, ah—today's a big day, an' we gotta make sure we come out on top." Digging in his back pocket, he takes out a cigarette and lights it. "Not that I got any doubts in ya—if I did, I wouldna picked ya—but I been thinkin' about the way that PR fights, an' I know how you can beat him, easy. Okay?"

"Okay," says Ice, leaning forward. "Lemme hear it."

But just as they're beginning to draw up a plan of attack for the rumble, the bell over the door lets out a noisy jangle, and a certain redhead announces her arrival:

"Riffy-poo!"

Riff, rolling his eyes, grins. Reaching over, he claps a hand on Ice's shoulder. "That's my cue, buddy-boy. I'm gonna go see if I can talk some sense into Tony." And without another word, he jumps up and dashes around the pinball machine and through the back door just as Graziella reaches the counter.

The redhead's mouth drops open. "Did he just—?

"I think so," Ice says, but his eyes are fixed on the blonde who is not far behind her. Velma is dressed in blue and green—a Jet's girl if there ever was one—and as always, Ice can't help the slow smile that comes over his face as he sees his girlfriend. Out of sight, mostly out of mind, but when she's there he can't imagine how he's lasted so long without her.

"Well," huffs Graziella, "I'm gonna go tell him it ain't polite to walk out on your own girl. If he's thinkin'-a gettin' his jollies tonight after the rumble, he'd better learn some manners!" And with that, she flounces after Riff and slams the door behind her with a bang.

In the silence that follows, Velma crosses the distance between them and comes to a stop just in front of him. "Hi," she says. Her voice is light but her eyes are clouded and he knows that she is worried. Don't be, he wants to tell her. Everything is going to be fine.

Ice reaches for her hand, pulls her down onto her lap and breathes in. She smells like vanilla and cake and all the sweet things he's ever tasted. "Hi."

He knows it's not going to last, that soon Riff and Graziella will come back and then the real planning will begin and he won't have a chance to be alone with Velma until later. But for the moment, she is here and he is happy and it's the greatest feeling in the world. Better than anything. And it's in the back of his mind, even as Ice doesn't let himself think it. Maybe even better than being a Jet.